I am the blood gushing out of my grandfather’s nose,
that seeps into the cracks of the old wooden floor.
I am the rough waves that hit the edge of the lighthouse,
only to be met by cascading darkness.
I am the many once-lit candles,
that flicker with solitude,
only to be blown out suddenly,
with no explanation.
I am the wide open fields,
that seem to go on for miles,
but only last a few.
I am the hymns sung at the service,
where the white snowflakes seem to contrast the color of my attire.
I am the many stones of the named,
yet only one seems to be clear,
and it’s someone whom I know.